Chapter 5 – Under Instructions at my Window #TheLadyInWhite

5 months ago

My imaginary friend situation never went further than me having full-on conversations with myself, in the apparent safety of my house, away from judgmental eyes. She never took my wheel. She never appeared again for me to put a face to the conversations. As far as I am concerned, I am just talking to myself – it’s an old habit from childhood.

Preview: Chapter 5

I remember sharing the story about 2008 with the person I eventually chose to have two children with. I was believed at first. Then disbelieved, later. I remember trying to describe a lookalike of the Queen, used after this broadcast with John Legend, holding onto the stories – I had shared with “Third-Party” – within a plate representing some form of respect and value for my identity, existence, and personal words. She was trying to make sense of their beef with me?
This picture, delivered to me in a very timely manner while I was living alone in a flat with my two-year-old daughter, was meant to pacify the anger I rightfully felt due to being insulted and mocked through every device in my home: TV, computer, phone, laptop… You name it! There was always a timely joke waiting for me. Always a timely pop-up with a donkey joke (donkey supposedly being me and Joseph being the father of my child, in reference to Joseph the carpenter who believed in Mary’s immaculate conception). To find out years later, after attempting to communicate this story by disappearing in the forest, that a nanny was being << allocated >> to “Joseph”. The news that she worked for members of the royal family was disgusting to me, not from a place of jealousy about an ex but from a place of hopelessness after all the back and forth in mental institutions. This lookalike of the Queen is now materialising as a reality in my children’s lives. Why does their mum have to be discarded like a non-human being? Interracial relationships tend to like the narrative where the black family is non-existent. Their pictures said, not me.

Whatever the answer may be, the same mum is watching, with concern, the allegations of Prince Andrew’s paedophilia! Is he the mastermind behind the term “Third-Party”? How can their intentions be righteous or innocent with all these finances lining up toward my children’s unconcerned dad? A man deprived of love and attention long enough and so eager to be successful, in defiance of his humble upbringing, will not ask too many questions when having all the money thrown his way solely on the merit of “his good looks” (his favourite description of himself). In his desert, any drop of water (even from an old enough one) is bound to be the most amazing thing that could ever happen to him.
I would cook for his wedding just to keep an eye on how this “fairy tale story” was unfolding for my children. Their safety was my concern. And still is. I dated a homeless guy, after our separation, being homeless myself. I would date another homeless man rather than subject myself to the presence and dangerous attention of questionable individuals. While I was in this long-term relationship with my children’s dad, I could not even mention any personal stories with my exes. I do not think I would have been granted any access to him if I had been into dating older men with money, before I met him. My water would have been too stale, too dark, somehow.
This chapter is supposed to be about me standing by my window, being controlled by British-accent-voices instructing me to go left, then right and then all around. Even though I was aware of the sarcasm and violence of what was being done, I still went left, then right and then all around (as instructed). You cannot go lower than this in terms of abuse of your human status. But despite me doing the most and yet not being “able” to stop myself from following these sarcastic commands, something else occurred.

By then, my landlord’s neighbours were watching the scenes, flabbergasted. I would have been speechless too if I were in their shoes. I felt like my freewill had been taken away from me. I did not have time to feel this way for too long because, suddenly, spectrums of colours started dancing above one car. A noticeably big and dark dot, from the sky, grabbed my focus. Both situations, from above and from below, started engaging in a conversation with me, with the clear intent to disengage me from what was being done to me, at the window. I learned that each person had an aura: orange, purple or black (they are the ones I remember, at least). Their auras were following them everywhere they went, announcing good or bad events to come in the immediate future. Black was a short line, representing their lifespan. Purple indicated, to me, who was linked to “Third-Party” and part of their “game” against me. Orange meant something positive. I do not remember anything else. But for a short while, I was seeing everyone’s aura. I no longer do. And I do not have the desire to see it ever again. The stress I was feeling around that time, for months, every time I saw the black cloud dancing behind people… Psychics happily deliver vague predictions to their trusting clients, but I do not do approximate information. Are these people temporarily sick or about to die? I did not even know. But I knew and saw something following closely behind them.
Someone eventually called the police, who had to use a tool to open the front door. I refused to go downstairs to open it for them, due to these dancing colours behind them. I did not know how my own actions affected other people’s dancing colours. I was scared, not appreciating all the phone calls between “Third-Party” and the police trying to understand how to approach me. How to talk to me. How many steps they could take before being “authorised” to be standing too close to me. So much information and knowledge were ready for them to handle “my” situation under the mental health act, right?
Now, let us talk about the “Lady in White”. Simply because someone needs to take credit for stealing my freewill for a hot minute, in this house, at the window.

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BY: Sylvaine FRANCIS 
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